


Die Each Day

by strange_h3arts



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:38:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strange_h3arts/pseuds/strange_h3arts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Silva saw mirrors as a bad joke; a cruel reminder of the man he had once been and never would be again."</p><p>This is basically a morning in the life of Silva, a couple days before Bond arrives on the island of Hashima. I wanted to write something more serious that really got into Silva's head and explored all the anger and betrayal stemming from his imprisonment in China.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Die Each Day

There had been a time when Silva had enjoyed looking at his own reflection.

Today, however, he completely avoided it as he cleaned his prosthesis with antiseptic and washed his face, the loose skin of his left cheek yielding grotesquely under his fingers.

Silva saw mirrors as a bad joke; a cruel reminder of the man he had once been and never would be again.

With a sigh, he slipped in his artificial palate and winced at the chemical taste. _Look on the bright side_ , he reminded himself. _It’s a miracle that you can still taste anything at all._

Silva lathed up his jaw with shaving soap and produced his old-fashioned razor blade, resisting the urge [as he did most mornings] to slit his own throat with it.

It was important to be clean-shaven. He was no longer able to grow hair on his left cheek where the skin had been reconstructed, and it looked odd if the two halves of his face didn’t match.

Forcing himself to look in the mirror, Silva expertly scraped himself smooth and examined his appearance. As usual, his bleached blonde hair was impeccable, and his blue-tinted contacts gave his eyes an eerie brightness. Yes, this man was a far cry from Tiago Rodriguez- some days, Silva could hardly recognize himself.

Silva slowly rolled his neck and extended his arms above his head, his joints cracking satisfyingly. So many parts of his body had been broken, fractured and misaligned in the past that it was almost impossible to stretch without hearing some sort of popping noise.

\--

Silva settled in at his laptop, the keys worn down from constant use. It was time to post the latest video that would reveal the names of 5 more MI6 agents to the internet world- or, at least, that was what it would _look_ like. In reality, the video was only accessible to the MI6 computer base, but Silva had rigged the view count to show hundreds of hits every hour.

Silva smirked as he entered his user name- _vials._ He had always been a fan of anagrams, even if it was a bit cliché.

In reality, Silva had no interest in the agents he was supposedly selling out- this whole plan was about hurting M, not MI6. He wanted to scare her; to knock the old bitch down a notch. Q branch would undoubtedly soon figure out the ruse, but that was irrelevant. He wanted M to begin to doubt if she was really in control after all, if only for the moment.

With a few keystrokes the video was up, and this time it was three men and two women. One of them a double-oh-- _that would certainly sting_ , Silva thought with a chuckle.

He snapped his laptop shut with a feeling of satisfaction and padded across the soft white carpet, still clad in only a silk bathrobe after his morning shower.

Silva’s favorite part of the day was getting dressed. Although his former face might have been unsalvageable, he took great pride in his physique and exercised daily. All his clothes were tailored perfectly; not too tight but fitted enough to show the sleek muscles he worked so hard to maintain.

Silva let the robe drop and cast a shrewd eye over his body. The scars were still there, prominently ridging over his chest and back, but they had lightened with time. He spent as much time as possible shirtless and out in the sun, which both faded the scar tissue and dulled his memories of being trapped in a windowless cell for six months without seeing the light of day.

Silva entered his vast closet and gazed appreciatively at his collection of designer clothes as he pulled on a pair of boxers and some dress socks. His mood had momentarily improved since his lapse of depression in the bathroom, most likely due to the newest YouTube video. Now Silva was feeling almost dapper, and he discerningly selected a loud silk shirt to pair with the dark slacks and tan sport coat he had mentally selected during his shower. Silva buttoned up the shirt and straightened the collar of his jacket, humming a tune that his grandmother had taught him years and years before. 

He grinned at himself in the full-length mirror, inspecting the off-putting perfection of his porcelain teeth. Silva realized that he had no idea who he was anymore. This… _monster_ that stood before him, eyes darkly manic and strangely blue, was unfamiliar. 

Without thinking, Silva suddenly lashed out and smashed the mirror with his fist, fragmented glass shattering on the floor and slicing into his fingers and palm. Silva stared at his bloody hand as if it had moved of its own accord. He realized that he was shaking uncontrollably.

Silva slowly backed away, refusing to look down- he didn’t want to see his face multiplied ten-fold in the shards of glass on the floor. He braced himself against the wall with his good hand, trying not to hyperventilate. _Relax. He needed to relax._

Silva held his breath and counted to ten. Meditation was one of his strong suits- he had become dependent on it during his imprisonment in China.

Silva exhaled slowly, his head suddenly clear. _First order of business: bandage his hand_. The broken glass would be taken care of by one of his guards. _Second order of business: eat something,_ Silva mentally added as he felt himself sway unsteadily on his feet. He often forgot to eat, as the cyanide had damaged his stomach lining and made it difficult for him to recognize hunger cues. It didn’t help that he couldn’t taste much, either: only about a quarter of his taste buds were functional, and the rest had been completely burned off. Eating was a chore, not a luxury. Ironic, really- during his internment, Silva (then Tiago) had constantly dreamed of what he would eat when he finally got out. Pasta, cakes, his grandmother’s chicken- hell, Tiago would have killed for a greasy hamburger from the MI6 cafeteria. His captors had essentially starved him, feeding him only enough to prevent him from keeling over.

But when he eventually did get out, he couldn’t eat for weeks. He had to be fed through a tube, completely dependent on the nurses that cared for him. Silva would never forget the humiliation.

Silva rinsed the blood from his hands and removed the biggest pieces of glass with a pair of tweezers, bandaging his palm with a piece of gauze. That would have to do for now, because today was an important day. If everything went according to plan, Bond would be arriving on the island in about 48 hours. _There were so many preparations to be made_ , Silva thought to himself as he exchanged his blood-spattered jacket for a nearly identical one from his closet.

Silva had always prided himself at being a good host. And this time, he was certainly not going to disappoint.

Silva clenched his bandaged hand at his side, relishing the sensation of the leftover glass shards digging into his flesh.

_James Bond had no idea what he was getting himself into._


End file.
